


Everything

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, episode not cancer, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-07
Updated: 2009-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>AU-ish I suppose, but then again what isn't? :P  Pretty damn angsty/sappy and probably OOC.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Everything

**Author's Note:**

> AU-ish I suppose, but then again what isn't? :P Pretty damn angsty/sappy and probably OOC.

**Title:** Everything  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** During 'Not Cancer'  
 **Author's Notes:** AU-ish I suppose, but then again what isn't? :P Pretty damn angsty/sappy and probably OOC.

 

 

"Nothing yet—keep talking."

The door shuts in House's face, cutting off any further rational thought with loud, wooden finality. The careful illusion that he was talking to Wilson normally vanishes and does something to his insides and makes House bang on the door again. He hears another door slam inside somewhere and stops. Looks around.

Wilson's front door opens a minute later, House tossing the keys somewhere on the floor with a domestic jingle.

Wilson walks out of the hallway and into the light from the window, wearing daylight over his defeated expression. Defeated by _what_? Overused exasperation at House.

"I think I know you well enough to know where you keep the spare key." It comes out too angry but House doesn't care anymore. "Why won't you talk to me?"

Wilson's lips threaten a smile. It seems easier for him to look at House from a distance. "When have you ever wanted to talk, House."

House sighs, advances. "I don't! But _you_ always do."

"House." And Wilson holds up his hands, looking down again now that House is closer. "I don't want to talk about this, okay? It's _personal_ —it has nothing to do with you."

House offers a sour laugh. "Yeah, I know. It's always personal, isn't it?" Wilson's watching him, keeping his mouth firmly shut. House laughs again. "Do you _really think_ this is gonna work? Christ! Marriage didn’t work— _pills_ didn't work, apparently. So now you—" House has to stop to keep his voice steady. "So _now_ you actually think you can start over? Blank slate, just like that?"

" _Yes_ ," Wilson says, and everything's suddenly uncomfortably intimate because of the rawness to his voice, because of Wilson's lost eyes. He rubs the back of his neck. "Look it's, it's not . . . your fault. Okay? Please . . ." Blows out a breath, shakes his head "You seemed pretty urgent about your not-cancer patient a minute ago."

There's this spiraling out of control thing going on in House's chest cavity that paralyzes him. His world is burning to the ground and he has only seconds before his last chance is gone forever—he considers this over and over and faster and scarier in his thoughts.

"House—"

"Fuck you."

Wilson sighs, nods vaguely in agreement like he deserves every horrible thing that's ever happened to him and House wants to punch him in the face for it.

House kisses him instead, not as suddenly and passionately as he might have, more of an insinuation against Wilson's mouth in the oblivious morning light. More of Wilson's eyes closed on anguish and kissing back slowly, velvety press of lips moving nonsensically against House's. House lets his cane fall along with the money and the keys to touch him, hand at the back of his neck replacing Wilson's earlier self-conscious gesture.

Wilson squirms away. "Shit . . . _Not here_."

"Yes here," House insists, takes Wilson's face in his hands to keep him there and kisses him again.

He doesn't taste like coffee, which is weird because Wilson wakes up at the crack of dawn and brews it while he gets dressed and preens in the mirror, then makes some unnecessarily involved breakfast in a suit and tie. He's not dressed for work right now—soft olive polo over the heat of his body—but it's late enough that he has to have eaten something and drunk the last of the coffee. House thinks he sees one of Wilson's green mugs on the counter—God it's so fucking green in here—but doesn't have time to process it because Wilson's kissing him harder, gaining confidence.

Wilson's kisses give just the right amount to fulfill his neediness quota, take just enough to keep him human, never surrender an inch.

House has him against the only open space on the (green) wall for miles, rips Wilson's shirt and undershirt over his head and shivers at Wilson's hands slipping up under his button-down, toying with the buttons forever and further wrinkling the worn material. Wilson's hair's sticking at odd angles—some weird mousse or something. House slices his fingers into it to make sure it stays messed up.

Although they do knock some unlucky wall lamps off kilter, miraculously nothing comes crashing to the floor, even after Wilson throws House's blazer at a dumb painting in the hallway.

Wilson lets out a low, drawn-out groan when House pulls him close after a mishap with the bedroom door, sucks on his neck. Wilson's fingers are making heated progress on House's buttons.

House thinks about how none of this feels unexpected. It's perfectly obvious that he'd want to probe the depths of Wilson's mouth with his tongue, get him naked and helpless with pleasure, apparently, but he's just never given it any serious thought before. Well, there hadn't been a reason to.

The bedroom matches Wilson's erstwhile shirt, House discovers, notes little accent pieces that gleam goldly in the light. The place looks like a fucking catalogue.

House pushes Wilson onto the . . . gold . . . sheets? Oh, what the—

House knows that it's probably all because of her, knows that Wilson is probably thinking of her too because of that whole mattress ordeal _and_ because she probably decorated the entire apartment. But for some reason House doesn't care who Wilson's thinking about as long as he stays wide-eyed and writhing. If Wilson's happy, House is—

House is back to kissing him frantically, on top of him, trying to keep up the momentum so Wilson doesn't have time to figure out what a bad idea this is.  
Wilson's leg curls around his, doesn’t appear to give a shit about infarctions, drags him closer. House leans in to lick that spot on his neck again and revels in the feel of Wilson's feverish skin against his. Hands twisting in House's shirt, Wilson breathing with disquieting overtones of despair . . .

Why the hell isn't Wilson putting a stop to this?

Wilson instigates another kiss, arms tight around him and eyes tightly closed. It starts out deep and delicious but House eases off to let their lips cling and caress, touches his face, thinking it makes more sense since Wilson looks like he's been on the verge of tears since he opened his front door.

But Wilson doesn't seem interested in subtle, Housean overtures of tenderness. He trails his mouth away to lick and bite at House's ear, hands under his shirt to map his back. House shivers at the sound of Wilson's hoarse breath in his ear, at the heat. House kisses him again, closes his eyes against the stupid, shiny sheets. Wilson's tongue runs along his and Wilson groans and House wants to do this forever.

Wilson's hands travel to House's hips, line them up so House can't help grinding down. Wilson arcs up, encourages with tightening fingers at his hips, with his inability to stop squirming against him for more friction. House thrusts back and suppresses a shudder and his shirt's scrunched up between them, sexy contrast to the electric brush of skin. Wilson never wears jeans, and somehow feeling the proof of his arousal through them makes it seem like it doesn't even count as Wilson.

Wilson pulls away from a kiss for air. " _Uh_. You're hard."

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," House says. Wilson breathes a laugh and House kisses his neck, feels his voice when he moans again. "You too," he adds, grinds down more insistently. Wilson moves in tandem, keeps moaning and muttering nonsense words, one hand flying over his head to catch the pillow in a death grip.

It doesn’t really matter that they're acting like horny teenagers since they generally act like teenagers whenever they're around one other. And House always does.

House starts to lose track of the specifics of what is contributing to the general haze of pleasure blotting out his brain and sets about basking in it. Wilson seizes the opportunity to flip them over and House's leg lands the wrong way, a fact made worse by Wilson scrambling carelessly over him but he forgets about it soon enough since Wilson's warm wide hands are sliding over his torso, nudging his shirt out of the way to kiss figure eights over his collarbone, suck the skin at the base of his neck, swirl words or symbols with his tongue down House's chest.

Wilson's heavy breathing whenever his mouth detaches from skin reminds House that it's Wilson, that Wilson could just as easily be telling him that something isn't cancer, gossiping over fries, laughing at idiots, telling House he'll end up pushing till they break, House unable to stop it this time . . .

Wilson's tongue does elaborate, unspeakable things to House's right nipple while he works House's jeans open impatiently, grunts into moist skin when his hand closes around House's cock. House throws his head back, determined to keep his mouth shut:

"Oh fuck— _yes_ . . ." And it tapers off on an embarrassingly eager groan.

Wilson makes an affirmative, encouraging sound that House feels in his chest cavity, jerks him deliberately and slowly and almost hard enough. Wilson makes that noise again and House has got to see his face, finds Wilson's eyes dark and starry and enthralled, shades of anger and want. The way their eyes lock is as overwhelmingly physical as Wilson's hand on his cock.

"House . . ." Wilson's voice breaks a little, like their friendship.

"Lie down."

Wilson does, knocking against House's leg again but House blocks it out, grabs for the top of Wilson's jeans and loves how hot the skin of Wilson's stomach is, subtle brush of hair, hipbones peeking over the hem.

"Off," House suggests.

Wilson nods with his mouth open, eyes closed. House takes a minute to kiss him, feels Wilson's arm tight around his shoulder for a minute while he kisses back.

House pulls away, shimmies out of his jeans and boxers and is about to take off his inconsequential shirt when he catches sight of Wilson laid out on the gold sheets like some debaucherous god, naked and flushed with terrifying black eyes seeking him out.

House doesn't waste any time running his hands up Wilson's thighs and lowering his mouth to taste him. Experimental lick under the head of Wilson's cock that gets a delicious sound out of him, prompting House to suck on it and make him start hyperventilating. House isn't interested in teasing him, for once, moves his mouth up and down and sucks _hard_ on the upstrokes, loves that Wilson's hips gravitate up, pleading rhythmically.

The muscles in House's mouth are getting tired but he wants to know just how high pitched Wilson's panting, accelerating impossibly, will actually get. Wilson's so tense House thinks he might be about to come but instead he lets out an enormous breath, going weak and teary-voiced:

"Ohgod, House . . . sorry, I'm . . . I'm . . . _fuck_ , House, I'm so— _oh, God_ —"

Wilson seems to lose track of his angst, shouts syllables louder and louder while his body squirms around of its own volition, one hand strangely light on House's head and the other fisting in gold sheets. House lets Wilson rock his hips and concentrates on sucking hard at the right moments, getting in licks every now and again and getting high off of the abandon in Wilson's voice, his body. When Wilson comes it's with silent breaths, not vulgarity or House's name. He's probably thinking of her now, anyway.

Luckily Wilson is dazed and glistening with sweat, arm over his head and hair goofily fucked up, so House doesn't mind.

House has been unbearably hard for awhile now, so he takes his cock in hand and watches Wilson's chest move up and down. There are circles under Wilson's closed eyes, wetness on his face that's hopefully sweat, expression still as scarily sad as before, not magically carefree—just a dazed and sweaty sadness now.

House blinks a couple of times, jerks himself faster with a grunt that attracts Wilson's hazy attention. Wilson makes a soft sound and pushes House's hands away vaguely, props himself up on one arm and can't seem to look at House while he takes over with slow, solid strokes.

House tries to get lost in the feeling but Wilson's averted eyes make his heart race the wrong way so he grabs his face with both hands and forces a kiss. House can't categorize the sobbing sound Wilson makes into his mouth as he parts his lips, strokes him slow and kisses him slower.

Just . . . just, Wilson and Amber, Wilson in his office, Wilson in green, Wilson's friendship, House's silence, Wilson's enabling and House's addiction to him, regrets, regrets, regrets . . .

Just Wilson, and everything.

House bites his lip when he comes, tense and silent, Wilson giving up on kissing him to press their faces together, foreheads slick and mouths open.

House isn't sure if this means he'll come back to the hospital. He's not even sure what Wilson coming back to the hospital even _means_. But he knows that he wants to ask.

Wilson gets off of him eventually, stares at the ceiling like it holds all the answers, eyes a little panicked. Wilson won't look at him, again.

House wants to ask. He _wants_ —

 

*


End file.
